osgiliath
by AaidenKae
Summary: a girl mercilessly sent to the battle of osgiliath by her uncaring father. its sad. but i had fun writing it. i really stink at summaries. she thinks about her brother who died and her lover who is also in the next world. i dont own anything but the


**Mornie Alantië**

_When darkness falls your heart will be true_

An order came to her home. A call to war for her brother.

He was dead. _Didn't Denathor know that?_ She wondered. _Didn't he_

_respect the dead enough to at least take their names and have them_

_counted after a battle. _She was still in grieving. He had been the

only one who had ever cared for her aside from her mother. She found

no favor with her hateful father. Wordlessly she took the order from

the guard who had brought it to her father. He looked it over silently,

solemnly.

"We have no men left in our house who can answer this order." He

said moving his crippled leg to another angle so as to remind her exactly

why he couldn't go. "We cannot ignore a summons. You'll have to go." He

took another swig from the bottle before him.

She bowed her head, knowing her fate if she joined the ranks to try

and regain Osgiliath. Women were not allowed to fight but she would be

killed anyway. Her mother stepped foreword.

"She cannot go to war." She said. "She is only a child."

"She is sixteen years old. We cannot ignore a summons from Lord

Denathor,you know that."

"Yes, of course I know, but perhaps he would lift it if we explained

that our son is dead-"

"No. The girl will go. Denathor wouldn't grant an audience with the

likes of you or me."

"But I have no armor."The girlbroke in, quietly.

"Nonsense. You will wear Cadathon's"

Wear the armor of her dead brother? How could she do such a thing. It

would be unthinkable. A disgrace to her brother's memory. A disrespect to the

dead. Tears filled her eyes. Her death would not be one of peace or honor or

glory, it would be one of disgrace. A disgrace unlike any other. Disrespect

to the dead and attempting to fill a man's place. Running away would only make

it worse. Her fate was sealed. And a terrible fate it was. A bloody,

powerless, digraced fate.

Her brother's armor was kept in his old bedroom. No one had been allowed

in there since his death. But she entered it now, feeling guilty. But defying

her parents would be a much worse sin. The room had not been empty for long.

But in the few weeks dust had collected on the furniture and all the friendliness

had flown away like a bird.

The Gondorian armor stood in the corner. The pride of her brother's life.

Now she took the sword. She looked in the mirror just as her brother had done.

But instead of seeing a proud young man riding off for honor in his first battle

she saw what she was and what was in her heart. A young girl scared out of her

mind preparing to ride to her ruin in a set of armor stolen from the dead. The

armor was too big. She looked small and helpless. She felt small and helpless.

She tucked the helmet under her arm and went to her father.

"Well, you'll have to cut your hair." He said at a glance. With a cry her

hand flew to her head. Her single beauty. The one thing that held her dignity as

a woman. Women who cut their hair short were ones who had been told to do so

because of a public disgrace. Even the elderly kept their hair long. But slowly

she realized that it was no good. She could not fight as a woman or die in honor

as it was. A little more disgrace could do her no harm. With a quick movement of

her brother's sword her dark tresses lay on the floor. Tears rose to her eyes.

I will not cry. she thought. At least I can still hold that honor.

_You walk a lonely road. Oh how far you are from home_

Her father gave her his most stubborn horse. The one that he was going to

have killed because it refused to be ridden by anyone except her. She whispered

to it, then mounted to join the other soldiers who marched down the streets in a

sad and solomn procession. Families of the doomed lined the streets. But unlike

a normal gathering there was no noise. No laughing children. No sounds but weeping.

A lass of her own age stared each soldier in the face, looking for someone. She saw

him. A tear made its way down her cheek as she placed her flowers in his hand.

Tears soaked her face under her helmet. _There would be no one to cry for her._

_They were both dead. Both? _She thought again. _Yes, there had been someone aside_

_from her brother and mother who had cared for her. Ananor. He was dead as well._

More tears came as she looked into each face she passed by. An old woman, a mother

accompanied by her two small children, a little girl who seemed to be alone, a young

man who had not been called to battle, a soldier, dismounted from his horse, taking a

last leave of his darling's lips, a father, more children. Faces blurred. She stifled

a sob. Hot tears fell on her armor. _She would see him again though. But if she died_

_in disgrace would he want her?_ The tears didn't stop as they left Minas Tirith. But

as the day wore on and the army came upon Osgiliath tears would not come anymore.

She resolutely swallowed her fears. If she had to die in disgrace at least she would

die a strong as she could be. _Maybe there was hope in this battle. Maybe they would_

_defeat the Uruk-hai. No. They were outnumbered. There was no hope. But maybe after_

_death...Eru. Eru held their fates. She would die fighting, die as honorably as she_

_could. Then leave her judgment to Eru. And to Ananor. And even if he didn't want her;_

_disgraced as she was Eru would not care of her disgrace. He would love her even if_

_Ananor wouldn't._

Osgiliath was in sight. The citadel of the stars. The faces of the fighting

Uruk-hai leered at the coming soldiers over the rubble of the once great city.

She joined her cry to that of captain Faramir and a hundred other men. The faces

were closer now. Close enough to see their yellow and red eyes. She cried out to

Eru. Then drew her brother's sword. Three Uruk-hai fell to her blade before she fell

to one of theirs. A scream tore at her throat, it ripped through her mind, but it

did not beak her lips. Blood trickled from the wound at her breast.

Then she fell, gasping for her last breaths.

_Mornie Alantië_

_When night is overcome you may rise to find the sun._


End file.
